


while you possess me more.

by bulletthestars



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, M/M, implied eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletthestars/pseuds/bulletthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walk, walk fashion baby. Or, in which Jenson and Nico are models, and Jenson (doesn't think he) falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	while you possess me more.

They meet in New York, backstage, when Jenson's got his hair slicked back and stubble shaved and a towel thrown around his shoulders for warmth.

'You look good.' The words slip out of Jenson's mouth before he's able to stop himself. 'I mean, hey. I haven't seen you around before.'

'Thanks. This is my second show, actually,' the blonde says, smiling a little self-consciously. He looks young, and Jenson thinks, _you're an old bastard at twenty six, JB, and he looks like jailbait_.

'Didn't look like it,' Jenson says, giving him a smile. The boy blushes, and Jenson finds himself staring openly. He's suddenly aware of how he's making small talk clad only in underwear and a pair of sandals, and how it's going to become a little more awkward for him if the conversation continues with his towel around his shoulders and not his hips. 'Right, gotta run, see you around,' he says, leaving before he embarrasses himself.

 

It doesn't occur to Jenson until when he's knocking back his third drink at the show's after party that well, at the very least, he should have asked for the boy's name.

 

He meets Jailbait when he's halfway across the dance floor, getting ready to leave because he's half drunk and he doesn't want to fall face first on to the ground.

'Hello,' Jailbait says, waving at Jenson. He blinks, and in the dim neon light, Jenson notices that he's got long, pretty eyelashes. 'You again.'

'Yeah,' Jenson answers, swallowing. He should be leaving now, he shouldn't have anything to do with Jailbait but his body isn't taking orders from his brain tonight and instead, he asks 'What's your name?'

Jailbait looks at him curiously, and reaches out to fist his hands in Jenson's shirt, pulling him closer. 'It's Britney,' he whispers in Jenson's ear, and Jenson feels a shiver run down his spine.

 

They fuck, or rather, Jenson gets down on his knees and sucks Britney off, because as much as he wants it, he's not too sure if he'll be able to last.

Britney's vocal, he cries out and gasps under Jenson. He grabs at Jenson's hair, pulling hard and pushing his face down, hips jerking forward as he fucks Jenson's mouth. Jenson doesn't mind, pushes his gag reflex as Britney thrusts harder, and Britney tugs sharply at his hair when he's close, tipping Jenson's head back. Jenson looks up at Britney, who's got his head thrown back in pleasure, baring his neck as he moans. He's pulling out even though he's got a condom on, and Jenson watches the steady rise and fall of Britney's chest as he breathes, panting heavily.

 _You're beautiful_ , Jenson thinks, swallowing thickly, one hand still at the base of Britney's cock while his other hand tugs at Britney's skinny jeans.

 

The next time they meet, Jenson's walking down the corridor back to the fitting room, and Britney's wrapped up in an asymmetrical trench coat, trying to keep his balance as he walks in a pair of platform heels that are three inches tall. Jenson grabs Britney by the wrist and pulls him roughly into a dressing room, and Britney looks at him, alarmed, like a deer caught in the headlights.

'You're Nico,' Jenson says, licking his lips.

Britney stares at him, startled, then he smiles. 'Took you long enough,' he says, tugging his wrist out of Jenson's grip. He takes Jenson's hand and brings it to his lips, placing a kiss on the inside of Jenson's wrist. 'See you around,' he says, and leaves Jenson staring at him.

 

Jenson doesn't get Nico's number. They hardly move in the same circles, and he knows that the types of shows that Nico gets are definitely not the kind that he'll be walking for.

 

They run into each other in Heathrow, when Jenson's tucking his passport into the pocket of his hoodie just after clearing immigration, and Nico's in front of him, top two buttons of his shirt undone, staring blankly into space.

'If I didn't know better, I would've thought you'd been waiting for me,' Jenson says, slinging an arm around Nico's shoulders.

Nico blinks, and turns to look at Jenson. 'I might have been,' he says with a wry smile.

Jenson laughs. 'Where're you headed for?'

'Berlin,' Nico says. 'My flight leaves in an hour and a half's time. And you?'

'Milan,' Jenson answers. 'Mine doesn't leave till four hours later. How about dinner?'

Nico cocks his head to the right, and Jenson swallows, taking in how adorable that particular action looks.

'Why not?'

 

'Look up, tilt your head to the left. A little more. Some more. Stay.'

Jenson isn't really Jenson. He's a man living in the Victorian age with a stiff collar and a cravat in black and white.

Click. Flash. Click. Flash.

'Arm over your head. Lean back. Hold it.'

He's an ex-soldier, haunted by his past, by guilt, for having survived while the men he had fought with had fallen. He looks right at the camera with eyes that fail to hide a world of pain.

Click. Flash. Click. Flash.

'Hands on the tie. Tug lightly, like you're adjusting it.'

He's trapped by the confines of Victorian civility, he needs to escape, needs to break free. The collar's stifling, the cravat's tied way too tight.

Click. Flash. Click. Flash.

'Pocket watch, pocket watch!'

There's a flurry of activity, and he's handed a silver pocket watch. There's a portrait of a girl inside the lid, in black and white.

'Eyes lowered, on the pocket watch.'

He had lost someone, and she's never coming back.

Click. Flash. Click. Flash.

'Alright, we're done with this one. Next scene!'

 

It's three in the afternoon and Jenson's on a bus in Paris and he has absolutely no idea where he's going. It's his idea of sightseeing – he'd just take this bus to wherever it goes and continue taking buses until he's back at wherever he'd started from. He watches people go by, drinking in the sight of Paris in spring when someone slides into the seat beside him and taps his shoulder.

He turns around, and the last person he expects to see is Nico.

'Hey,' Nico says with a grin. 'What are you doing here?'

Jenson looks at him and says 'I could ask the same question, Britney.'

 

The night ends with Nico stroking Jenson's cock, rubbing his thumb against his sensitive tip.

'You don't get to touch me,' Nico says, and Jenson nods, biting back a moan. Nico smiles, it's the same one that he had on the very first time they met, that dirty look that screams _jailbait_ and Jenson groans, clutching at the bed sheets as Nico leans forward and blows air at the tip of his cock.

'Do you want more?' Nico asks, batting his eyelashes coquettishly as he teases Jenson's tip with his fingers. 'Or maybe I should stop. It does seem to be a little too much for you, doesn't it?'

'Fuck,' Jenson growls, hips bucking forward, only to have Nico put a hand on his hip, holding him down with a surprising amount of strength. 'Don't stop. _Never stop_.'

Nico smiles, and takes Jenson's cock in his hand. He looks up at Jenson, making sure that Jenson's gaze is locked on him, and he presses his lips to the tip of his cock, kissing, flicking and swirling his tongue all over before wrapping his lips obscenely around his cockhead.

 

Jenson wakes up alone at six in the morning. Nico's nowhere to be found, and Jenson vaguely remembers having to be at a shoot at ten.

His shirt's folded neatly beside his jeans, and Jenson thinks _this isn't your hotel room, and Nico isn't yours_.

 

'Why Britney?' Jenson asks one afternoon. He's taking small sips from a cup of peppermint tea, and Nico's sitting on the dressing table. They're both waiting for the fitting to end, for the other models to be ready so they're able to start posing. Time is ticking away, slowly, five, six, seven, eight.

'Old nickname,' Nico answers, with a bashful sort of smile. 'It was because of my hair. It's blonde.'

'Are you sure it's not because you're beautiful?' Jenson asks, raising an eyebrow.

Nico's cheeks flush red and he shakes his head vehemently. 'Most definitely not.'

 

A few hours later, they end up in some motel in the middle of nowhere, and Nico rolls a condom on to Jenson's cock before slicking him up with a liberal amount of lube. That's what motels are good for, they've got everything ready for you to fuck, and Jenson's breath is shaky as he watches Nico fuck himself with his fingers.

'How do you like it?' Jenson asks, clutching at Nico's hips. He's got his eyes fixed on Nico, and Nico's cheeks flush under his scrutiny. 'One finger at a time, stretching yourself open, slowly filling you up until you're all too eager for someone's cock?'

Nico shifts in Jenson's lap. 'God yes,' he answers, sucking in a deep breath as he lowers himself on Jenson's cock.

' _Fuck_.'

 

Jenson stares openly, taking in the way Nico moves, hips swaying to the beat. He doesn't know if Nico knows that he looks absolutely delicious with his polo tee clinging to him, riding up just a little when he raises his arms to reveal a sliver of skin and jeans low on his hips. He supposes he doesn't, and he feels a tiny pang of jealousy when the people around Nico move closer on the dance floor. There's a blonde girl who's blocking Jenson's view from the bar, and there's a thickset man behind him, and Jenson's eyebrow twitches as he watches the man grind against Nico.

Nico doesn't seem to notice though. He moves like he doesn't give a damn about anything in the world, and Jenson knocks back drink after drink as he watches Nico dance, in that strange, awkward and oddly fluid manner of his

 

It's not a relationship, at least, not _yet_ , Jenson tells himself as he jerks off, thinking of Nico, of the way Nico runs his tongue over his lower lip, of the way Nico's lips had felt against his wrist, of Nico, moaning, hands fisted in his hair as he comes.

 

'Hands on the waist of the person in front of you. Look to your left. That's it. Now everyone, stay.'

Click. Flash. Click. Flash.

'Now for the flower petals. In three. Two. One.'

Jenson remembers not to wince as the set assistants turn the fans on, and someone sets at least three bags of flower petals loose.

 

Nico always seems to know where to find Jenson. He shows up one morning, leaning against the bonnet of Jenson's car, and asks him to take him out.

 

They watch Casablanca in an old, dingy cinema, with seats that feel way too soft and seat covers that feel way too rough. Jenson's got a bucket of popcorn in one hand and every five seconds he feeds Nico a piece that's way too sweet for his liking. At the end of it all, Nico buries his face in Jenson's shoulder, and they stay until the credits finish rolling and the lights come back on.

 

The soft glow of the setting sun bathes the cafe in shades of pink and orange. Jenson's sitting opposite Nico, sipping at a cup of Earl Grey tea. He watches as Nico cuts a small piece from his slice of strawberry shortcake, watches how Nico brings a forkful of cake to his mouth and watches as Nico's tongue darts out to lick the cream from his upper lip.

Nico notices how Jenson's watching, and he smiles shyly. Jenson charts the way Nico's smile subsides, until all that's left is just the tiny, upward quirk of one side of his lips before he eats another bite of his cake.

 

Nico's got his hands tied above his head, with his black scarf that he had stupidly chosen to wear. It's summer, and it's sweltering hot outside, and Jenson had taken one look and laughed, saying that Nico should keep it on because he's got _plans_ for it. It isn't as if Nico isn't enjoying it, of course, the feeling of losing control, with Jenson kissing his inner thighs and stroking every single fucking place except where he needs to be touched most.

'Jenson,' Nico groans, hips bucking forward as Jenson rubs circles into his inner thighs with his thumbs and _god_ , his skin is so fucking sensitive there. ' _Please_ ,' he manages through gritted teeth, gasping when Jenson leans up and kisses the tip of his cock.

'You only had to ask, princess,' Jenson says, grinning as he takes Nico into his mouth.

 

'Sometimes, do you wonder if there's got to be more to life than this?' Jenson asks without turning to look at Nico, who's lying beside him.

There's no answer, because Nico's already fast asleep.

 

'Are there any other sizes for that collared shirt with frills?'

'The beige one? No.'

'Seven's too big for him. Six suffocates him. So help me Lord.'

'Take seven then, use the pins and whatnot to make it fit. We haven't got all day.'

A flustered looking assistant turns to Nico and hurriedly adjusts his clothes, sticking pins into his shirt

'Don't move,' the assistant orders, frowning in concentration. 'Are you sure you didn't put on weight over the last week?'

Nico opens his mouth to answer, but the assistant cuts him off.

'You should work on getting back to a size six. It'll make things easier.'

Nico winces as the assistant pulls the fabric of the shirt tight against his skin.

'Take this cardigan, put it on. It'll hide the pins.'

 

'Don't listen to the bullshit they say,' Jenson says, stroking Nico's hair. Nico's pressed against him, face buried where Jenson's neck meets his shoulder. 'You're fine the way you are.'

Nico makes a soft, muffled sound of acknowledgement and Jenson sighs. He shifts so that he's able to place a kiss on Nico's forehead.

 _Truth is, we're all in the business of selling bony shoulders and cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Or bodies bulked up and oiled to shine. Or soft, fluid curves. It changes all the time. You're hardly ever fine the way you are. You'll_ never _be fine the way you are._

 

Rain falls heavy on the pavement, and Jenson forgets his umbrella. They're soaked to the skin, and Nico looks absolutely delicious, with his white polo tee clinging to his skin, almost translucent.

'You look hungry,' Jenson remarks, meeting Nico's gaze as he fumbles with the keys to his flat.

'For you,' Nico answers with a smile.

Jenson unlocks the door, pulls Nico in, and kisses him as he slams the door shut behind them.

 

In the morning, Nico saunters towards the dining table clad only in a pair of boxers.

'Food,' Nico says, looking appreciatively at the plates in Jenson's hands. There's bacon, poached eggs, sausages, toast and a generous helping of baked beans. 'Not a trainwreck, are you?'

'With how I look? Nah. Life's too short to be one,' Jenson answers, shrugging. He sets the two plates of food down on the table, and looks at Nico, who's got a wistful sort of look in his eyes. His gaze hardens, and he cocks his head in the direction of a chair. 'Breakfast?'

Nico's eyes dart from the food on the plates to the floor, and Jenson frowns.

'You're not going to tell me that you're not hungry, are you?'

Nico laughs shakily and shakes his head. 'No, of course not.'

 

They fuck in the shower, with Jenson jerking Nico off as he thrusts in between his thighs.

Nico cries out, fists clenched against the tiled bathroom wall when he comes, spilling white all over Jenson's fingers.

 

'You can destroy a good suit with a bad pair of shoes,' Jenson says, eyeing Nico's shoes.

Nico laughs. 'Fuck you,' he says, rolling his eyes, and Jenson grins.

'You just did.'

 

Nico's wearing trousers cut so skinny they're almost clinging to his legs like a second skin, and a trench coat thrown over a white shirt.

_one two three four five six seven eight keep the goddamn rhythm and now_

He stops and poses, hands clenching slightly. He sees Jenson, a couple rows behind, and Jenson offers him a reassuring smile, telling him that he's doing just fine. Nico allows himself to smile, just a little. There's a collective sigh from the ladies in front of him and then he turns, walking back.

 

Jenson sees it, the perfect shot of Nico plastered over billboards, with that slight upward quirk of his lips. He feels a strange sensation pooling in his gut, willing away the urge to destroy something, _anything_ , because even though the thought of it is fucking ridiculous and that smile, that goddamn smile on Nico's face doesn't belong to him, he had wanted so badly to believe that it would always be for him, and him alone.

 

Somewhere in between nights of kissing and drinking and walking for different shows, pretending to be someone he's not, Jenson finds that he's falling, it isn't like how it was before. Drunken nights spent making out in the darkened areas of nightclubs segue into evenings spent in Jenson's flat, with his limbs entwined with Nico's. It's almost as if they've gone past the stage of being awkward teenagers, too obsessed with nothing more than fucking one another's brains out and into the stage of contentment with each other's presence within the span of a few weeks.

 

Nico's dressed in a black polo tee and dark grey skin tight jeans, with shackles around his wrists and a collar around his neck. He's kneeling on a cushion, and Jenson's cupping Nico's cheek.

'Think of it this way. He's a pet you're supposed to protect.'

Nico looks up at Jenson with a questioning look in his eyes. An assistant shuffles up to them, and applies blush liberally on Nico's cheek.

'Make the bruise sharper. We need to see it. Hollow out your cheeks a little. That's better.'

Nico lowers his gaze, shifting in his position.

'I'll never hurt you,' Jenson mouths as the assistant retreats, and Nico leans into his touch.

'Get ready. Dim the lights.'

Click. Flash. Click. Flash.

 

Chronic sleep deprivation is a cure for insomnia.

There's something deeply unsettling about having to stare at the ceiling, with darkness in the corners, creeping in as you wait for sleep to settle.

But the hardest part is, of course, when Jenson's in the cusp of waking and dreaming, and he wanders about in an aimless cycle, thoughts inevitably drifting to Nico. Everything is transient, the shutters flash and it all goes up in flames and lights that blind. Love is fleeting, gone in a moment, and promises are flimsy, just like a sheet of paper. Jenson knows it, knows that nothing lasts forever, especially in their world, but there's something precious about Nico that makes him want to cling to him and never let him go.

(Jenson tells himself that this is obsession, a desire to possess something beautiful, even if it's just for a little while. This isn't love, the strange feeling that has been growing and expanding inside him, threatening to break loose and consume him.)

 

They walk together, two foreigners in the streets of Tsim Sha Tsui. It's a warm night, and Nico's feeding Jenson curry fishballs, two at a time, while they try to remember which way it is back to their hotel from the subway. They wander the streets under bright neon lights and huge billboards in a language they don't understand and buildings they barely recognise.

An hour later, Jenson decides that they're lost, and Nico laughs, saying that they could always take a taxi back.

Nico falls asleep on Jenson's shoulder on their way to the hotel. Jenson looks at him, feeling slightly startled at how peaceful he looks when he's asleep, and he wonders just how much he knows about him.

(His name is Nico Rosberg. He's twenty one this year. That's all Jenson knows.)

 _You give and you give and you give and sometimes, you'd like to take, just a little_.

Jenson supposes that this rule doesn't apply to Nico.

 

'We're not dating, are we?' Nico whispers, lips pressed against Jenson's neck. Jenson's gripping his hips as he rocks into him, panting heavily.

'Should we be?' Jenson asks after a particularly hard thrust. He should say it, should say _yes, we are, goddamn it, we've been dating for a fucking long time but we've never realised it_ but he doesn't, and Nico's answer is a long, drawn out moan.

 

The director's hands cover Jenson's, placing them on Nico's shirt front.

'You're angry. You want to hurt him. You want to _break_ him.'

An assistant adjusts Jenson's black shirt, half unbuttoned and untucked, falling nicely over his navy blue jeans. He clenches his fists in Nico's shirt, and Nico stares at him impassively. An assistant tugs at Nico's leather vest, and Jenson looks at Nico's shoulders, wondering when they had started getting bony, or if they had originally been bony. He doesn't remember, and it scares him.

'Thin,' the director says, giving Nico a once-over. 'Well, not enough for you to be real pretty, but you'll have to do.'

The assistants move out of the set.

'Ready?'

Jenson clenches his fists so tight that his nails dig into his palm. Nico averts his gaze.

Click. Flash. Click. Flash.

 

'You're not going to spend the rest of the night looking at me like this, are you?' Nico asks. His shirt is fully unbuttoned, falling away at the sides, and his jeans and underwear are thrown somewhere across Jenson's living room. There's a hint of worry in his voice, and Jenson supposes it's rather misplaced. They're models, they're paid to put themselves on display, as a doll for designers to play dress up with.

'Why not,' Jenson answers. 'You're beautiful.' He brushes a lock of hair out of Nico's eyes, and Nico flinches, chewing on his lower lip, avoiding Jenson's gaze.

'There are better things you could do,' Nico says, pressing on resolutely and Jenson grins.

'Oh?' he asks, kissing Nico's jaw, then his neck, going lower and lower until finally, he flicks a tongue across a nipple, causing Nico to whimper.

'Like fucking me,' Nico says, _pleads_ , sinking his nails into Jenson's shoulders.

Jenson laughs. 'Of course, princess,' he says, kissing Nico's forehead. 'Your wish is my command.'

 

Nico's cheeks are flushed, and he lets out a soft, needy whine as Jenson thrusts into him. His skin is sticky and damp with sweat, and he arches against Jenson, wanting more. He snakes a hand in between them, and starts to jerk himself off as Jenson fucks him, and Jenson laughs, leaning forward to nibble on Nico's earlobe. Nico moans, feeling Jenson's hot breath against his ear.

'Impatient, aren't we?' Jenson murmurs and Nico groans when Jenson shifts, reaching in between them to stroke Nico's cock.

'Jenson,' Nico gasps, breathless as Jenson palms his cock, sliding his thumb over the tip. ' _Jenson_ -'

'Hush,' Jenson answers, kissing Nico hard. Nico moans into the kiss, and Jenson slips his tongue past his lips, past his teeth, presses his tongue to the roof of Nico's mouth and tastes him.

When Nico comes undone, he cries out in pleasure, voice raw and broken. He throws his head back, and Jenson presses his lips to Nico's neck, sucking a bruise into his skin. Nico threads his fingers through Jenson's hair and pushes his head down, as if asking him to suck harder, to bite harder, to leave a proper mark, and Jenson's all too happy to oblige.

Later, Jenson watches as Nico shudders beneath him, spent, with his hands above his head. He continues rocking into Nico's pliant, languid form, and Nico wraps his legs around Jenson's waist as he fucks him.

'Jenson,' Nico whispers, voice hoarse as he reaches out to cup Jenson's cheek.

When Jenson goes over the edge, he thinks, _I don't want to ever let you go_.

 

'Are you in love with the idea of me?' Nico asks Jenson one night, after seven shots of vodka and at least three glasses of VBR.

'What are you talking about?' Jenson asks, shoving Nico into the passenger seat of his black Chevrolet.

'You don't really love me,' Nico says, waving his index finger at Jenson, shaking his head.

'Was this ever about love?' Jenson finds himself asking. He stills, looking at Nico searchingly.

_Say yes, I'm pretty sure I've given part of my soul to you and I can't turn back now._

'Wrong answer,' Nico says, pouting. 'Bad boy,' he continues, swatting at Jenson's face.

'You're drunk,' Jenson sighs, shutting the door, before getting into the driver's seat. He leans over to buckle Nico's seatbelt, and he presses a kiss to Nico's forehead and whispers 'I love you.'

 

In the wee hours of the morning, Jenson stirs, vaguely registering the movements of someone beside him on the bed. 'Leaving already?' Jenson asks, voice slurred with sleep.

'Got a job in Paris tomorrow,' Nico answers. He hesitates momentarily, then presses a chaste kiss to Jenson's lips. 'Go back to sleep.'

 

This is one week without Nico.

Life goes on as per normal.

 

This is two weeks without Nico.

Jenson believes that coincidences don't exist.

 

This is three weeks without Nico.

'Look into the distance. Someone's chasing you. You don't know who. Hands on the tree trunk. You're hiding. Waiting. Biding your time.'

Jenson does as he's told, feeling the rough surface of bark beneath his palms. There're leaves all over his shoes, it's an outdoor shoot and he feels the autumn chill, feels it seep in through the gaps between his blazer and his skin.

'Someone's coming. You can hear it.'

Click. Flash. Click. Flash.

Jenson looks straight at the camera and thinks _there's no one left_.

 

This is four weeks without Nico.

Jenson's in Tokyo, wandering about in Shibuya clutching an umbrella, crossing the roads over and over again. He's looking for someone, looking for Nico, but he knows he's not going to find him here, in the midst of the pouring rain. His windbreaker sticks to his skin, his jeans are soaked thoroughly and his shoes are wet, but he walks on.

He should be spending his time in a nightclub somewhere, partying and drinking to forget. It's his only day off here, he should be eating sushi and staring as the sushi chef dips his fingers in a bowl of water to keep his fingers cold, should be knocking back highball and sake, but instead he's waiting as the rain gets heavier, waiting for someone who will never come.

 

This is five weeks without Nico.

After a show in New York, Jenson doesn't go to the after party, doesn't head for a nightclub or someone's yacht. He goes straight back to the hotel, wishing that he doesn't have to wait for ten hours until his flight back to London. He tosses about in his bed, unable to sleep. He cleans out at least half of the amount of alcohol in the mini bar, and passes out dead drunk somewhere near his bed.

 

This is six weeks without Nico.

At a store in Berlin, Jenson comes face to face with a huge, blown up poster of Nico. He's clad in a black leather jacket and a tight white t-shirt, and Jenson finds himself placing his fingers on the glass, tracing Nico's cheekbones, wondering when they had gotten sharp enough to cut like knives.

 

This is seven weeks without Nico.

_five six seven eight_

They've got gas masks on, paired with gladiator sandals. It's the end of the world, and Jenson's going to survive it wearing the frayed pair of maroon shorts that clings to his hips, nothing more.

_one two three four_

There's no one else in the room, just him and the music, and he's going to walk on.

 

This is eight weeks without Nico.

Jenson wakes up in a city that doesn't sleep. He eats breakfast at midnight, turns up at a photo shoot with dark circles underneath his eyes and stubble on his chin. The photographer shoots him an excited look, the make-up artist shakes her head disapprovingly, and the director cups his cheek and tells him that yes, _this is exactly what she had been looking for_.

He's dressed in shades of navy blue and grey, his shirt is half unbuttoned and his jeans are unbuttoned, he's lying on a sofa with his fingers placed gingerly on an empty bottle of ginger ale.

'Look at me.'

He turns, looks into the camera, and his eyes ask if he'll ever see Nico again.

 

This is nine weeks without Nico.

Jenson tells himself that life goes on. They live in a world where people crash and burn easily. They come and go and before you know it, the cycle's starting all over again, with fresh faces with jaded eyes and pouty lips.

_You don't have dreams because they're dangerous, they smoulder and simmer long after the flames go out and it's perfectly ridiculous because all you are left with is a shadow of your former self, still longing for the greatness you've (never) achieved._

 

This is ten weeks without Nico.

It's a shoot for some new and upcoming brand, with edgy prints and sharp angles and metal studs on leather with cashmere sweaters and denim in olive and maroon and khaki. The room is spartan, with a wooden table in the centre, white walls and a cold, concrete floor.

This is the first shot. Jenson poses in a finely cut blazer with metal studs on the shoulders, with nothing underneath, while a size zero model clings to his waist from behind, breasts pressed against his back.

This is the second shot. Jenson tugs at the hem of his cream coloured sweater. The size zero model leaves, and a familiar face bursts into the room, clad in loose slacks and a black silk cardigan.

This is day one with Nico, and Jenson feels like he's meeting him for the very first time.

 

Afterwards, Jenson pulls Nico into a dressing room and presses finger shaped bruises into his skin as he kisses him hard. Nico leans into the kiss, cups Jenson's cheek as he kisses back fervently, feeling the roughness of Jenson's stubble underneath his smooth fingertips.

 

'I thought you'd left,' Jenson says later, when Nico's curled up against him. They're in Jenson's flat, huddled underneath the covers. 'Went off the grid for good or something.'

Nico smiles, and presses closer to Jenson. 'Well. I'm back now.'

 

The next time they get a job together, Nico's carrying a moleskin notebook, scribbling away in it after each drink of water, each bite of an apple.

'You're keeping a food journal,' Jenson says wryly, and Nico shrugs.

'It's an endless parade of skinny jeans, and all we're doing is selling sharp angles and bone structure and wrists so tiny they look like they might snap any moment,' Nico answers, shutting his notebook. 'That's the truth of this industry, and that's all there is to it.'

'Right,' Jenson answers, mouth dry, because he isn't sure if this Nico is the same Nico he had known right from the beginning.

 

'Sometimes, when you drive, you feel like you're out to crash,' Nico says, with his hand on the gear shift.

Jenson looks at him apprehensively as he clutches at his seatbelt. They're driving on a straight, and Jenson's pretty sure that there's a sharp turn ahead but Nico's going faster, still accelerating, and Jenson likes it, fast cars and life in the fast lane but to go out like _this_ -

(Then again, it isn't as if he really minds, crashing, life spiralling to its inevitable end with Nico by his side)

'And then you remember that there're some things worth staying for,' Nico continues, and then they're slowing down abruptly, and Nico brakes, and they go round that turn and Jenson feels his heart stop in that instant. He steals a glance at Nico, there's a wistful sort of look in his eyes and Jenson almost forgets to breathe.

There's a traffic light up ahead, turning from amber to red, and Nico lets the car roll to a stop.

'Next time, I'll drive,' Jenson says, voice shaky as they stare at the pedestrians crossing the road in front of them. 'Have I told you before? I'm not a good passenger.'

Nico laughs and says 'Alright.'

 

This Nico leaves his number scrawled on a post-it, stuck on Jenson's dining table. He walks about Jenson's flat half-naked, and helps himself to the milk in Jenson's fridge. This Nico leaves Jenson's clothes folded neatly on his bed, just like before. This Nico kisses Jenson's cheek before he goes, and tells him he'll see him soon.

This Nico moves with a lazy sort of grace, without any of the awkwardness the Nico of the past had. His smiles are perfect and polished, and his gaze is sharp, his movements with finesse. The slight clumsiness is gone, and so are the tiny imperfections.

This Nico tells Jenson 'I'm not leaving you,' and kisses him hard on his lips. He bites hard on Jenson's lower lip afterwards, for emphasis, perhaps.

Jenson doesn't know if there's a difference between this Nico and the Nico from back then. He doesn't know if it should matter. At all.

 

Today, they're glitter and bright lights with leather boots that go all the way up their calves. Nico holds a whip, looking up, baring his neck. Jenson watches, wondering when his skin had gotten so pale.

Click. Flash. Click. Flash.

Jenson enters the scene. His shirt is ripped in all the right places, his black slacks are stretched taut around his thighs and calves, and he's barefoot.

Nico looks at him, eyes filled with disdain.

_You want to be dominated. You want me to cut you like a knife and tear you apart. You want me to take everything away. You want to lose control. Go ahead, kneel._

Jenson holds his stare, looking defiant.

_I'd like to see you make me._

Click. Flash. Click. Flash.

A make-up artist comes in, hurriedly touching up on the powder on Jenson's cheeks, then touching up on Nico's lipstick. His lips are painted a bright shade of red, and Jenson swallows hard, because the colour looks just like blood.

 

'You dress it up and drink it in,' Nico says, arching against Jenson, breathing harshly. 'Everything changes. Everyone changes, all the time.'

Jenson doesn't know why Nico's spouting philosophical shit when he's fucking him against a wall, he hasn't got the mental capacity to come up with a coherent reply what with how Nico's clenching around him, taking his breath away. So he presses a kiss to Nico's neck and murmurs 'I haven't' against his skin instead, but Nico doesn't hear him, legs tightening around his waist as he groans, demanding that Jenson move _faster_.

**Author's Note:**

> [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBPaDKMNHwM) started it all, and [i](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mc9idfzWlX1rgevsyo1_1280.jpg) [blame](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XR0BEt_AtlI) [these](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5mZVx1BjC2c) [too](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iD12gROUSnA). and here's jenson driving his black chevrolet. thank you judy, sai and julie for being betas! cm and lynette, you two are horrible enablers.


End file.
